


Sweet Shorts (Peter Parker x Reader One Shots)

by Rileywrites_parker



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Marvel - Freeform, Marvel Universe, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Soft Peter Parker, and flowery, peter parker can be a tease, peter parker is a soft, these are all cheddar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 21:23:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16940973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rileywrites_parker/pseuds/Rileywrites_parker
Summary: A collection of sweet and salty imagines centered around our sweet boy Peter Parker.





	1. A Leia to Your Han

**Author's Note:**

> You’d wanted to earn that stupid smile of his the moment it had graced his face. That was how you’d found yourself sifting through racks looking for pieces you could use to make yourself a matching set; a Leia to go with his Han.  
> Or: indulging a Star Wars fanatic named Peter.
> 
> FLUFFY - LOOKING WORD HERDER.
> 
> Happy Belated Halloween.

Holding onto the trailing edge of the white dress, fabric bunched between sweaty, nervous fingers and hem flapping over the boots you’d managed to find at a thrift store, you carefully navigated the crowded jittery hallway full of excited, costumed voices; classroom windows covered in festive webs, spiders, pumpkins, and bats hanging from ceiling tiles.

“Happy Halloween!” you shouted across a few heads and shoulders, waving back at your friend from English as she smiled at you, giving you a thumbs up and a wink; your cheeks heating at the gesture. 

She knew what, or _whom,_ had influenced your costume this year.

Yours eyes focused on the way the silky fabric caught in the light, shimmering as it moved over the tile around your feet, secret smile pulling at your lips as you thought about him, thought about the smile you knew this would put on his face.

You’d convinced him that you weren’t dressing up this year.

And truthfully, you hadn’t planned on it. Not until his eyes had lit up and that stupid smile had pushed up at freckled cheeks and long eyelashes when he’d talked about dressing up as his favorite hero this year.

He was contagious; convincing without words, without really meaning to be.

You’d wanted to earn that stupid smile of his the moment it had graced his face.

You wanted it always.

That was how you’d found yourself sifting through racks looking for pieces you could use to make yourself a matching set; a Leia to go with his Han. Your stomach flipped over itself again as you thought about it; the warmth that was Peter spreading through nervous limbs as it always did.

You’d nearly collided with a crude rendition of the Hulk, long face painted green, sloppy, black penciled brows rising as eyes caught on your hair, white teeth shining in contrast with the verdant color of his lips as he laughed.

You rolled your eyes at him as you passed, already pushing it aside as you found the lines of a familiar set of broad shoulders, of long, lean legs wrapped tightly in blue fabric, the backs of ears that maybe stuck out a little too much, and toffee colored waves that forever had your heart tossing in the sea of adoration.

He pulled off his thrifted costume well.

“Well, _hello,_ Solo,” words catching on the tail end of a chuckle as you came to a stop in front of the locker nearest his, fingertips grazing over the fabric of the vest he’d carefully draped over his shoulders. 

He laughed as he reached for his Chemistry textbook, “Good morning,” voice still raspy with the last remnants of sleep. “So, what do you call someone who doesn’t dress up for Halloween? I mean, I can’t call you a Grinch. Not yet anyway,” he mumbled.

You found yourself chewing on your lip, working to hide your smile as you anxiously waited for him to stop fumbling around in his locker. A few of your fingers curled around the leather belt slung loosely across his hips in answer, tugging at him to catch his attention, to pull him closer. You couldn’t keep from grinning as pink painted his cheeks when he looked down at your hand.

Then his eyes widened as they registered the fabric hanging delicately from your wrist.

“O-oh,” and then his breath caught in his throat and you could _feel_ the warmth of his eyes as they took you in, as he traced over the shape of you in that form fitting white dress. He shoved the books he’d pulled from his locker back in place sloppily, freeing up excited hands, eager fingers reaching out to touch where his eager eyes already had, “You-you said you weren’t dressing up. I’m - ” whispering in the same tone his fingers were as they ran up your arms, tips of them catching on wrinkles, fabric pulling and tickling fine hairs as they made their way up to your neck, “This is – just;” a few loose waves crashed over his forehead as he shook his head to free the words caught, “it’s just so _cool.”_

“Cool? _Cool?_ ” you laughed, taking a step back, hands on your hips as you worked to sell it, “listen here, you _scruffy-looking nerf herder_ ;” and there was that smile, that smile of his that lit the whole of him, the whole of you, “do you see what I’ve done to my hair? I’m going to suffer through an entire day of _‘Hey, nice buns,_ ’ for you,” that smile turning into a laugh at the tone your voice had taken on, warmth of his hands finding your hips, his fingers lacing through yours as he pulled you to him again, “So you better have something better to say than _‘Cool,’ Solo,_ ” a finger prodding at his chest serving as punctuation.

“Ok, _fine_ your worshipfulness,” he’d pulled you so close you were breathing in each other, spearmint and something entirely _his_ flooding your senses; chests touching as you took the other in, the tip of his nose brushed against yours and your heart skipped as his voice deepened, as his tone changed; your Peter suddenly taking on a different, more confident persona; emboldened with courage in _this_ costume the same way he was when he wore his other, “This is amazing and you look beautiful. Allow me to thank you and your buns properly, _Princess_.” 

You started to laugh, sound dying off quickly when his fingers tightened their hold, eyebrows raising as you took in his expression.

The noise of the hallway that had become a buzzing the moment you’d entered his space, completely fell away when his tongue peeked out to wet lips and darkened amber eyes lingered over the shape of your own; already tingling; warm puff of air escaping as his hands moved from your hips to cradle your face.

A sandy curl tickled at your forehead as it fell loose from the rest of those waves.

“I’d just as soon kiss a wookie,” you whispered; a sorry attempt at staying in character, at fighting back; eyelashes already fluttering closed as your lips brushed over his, joke falling flat as the words caressed his smiling lips.

“That can be arranged,” his words muffled and lost between flesh as lips met, pads of calloused thumbs smoothing over blushing cheeks, while yours clenched at the dark fabric of his vest; holding him to you where beating hearts could meet in a kiss, too. That smile was back on his face when he pulled away, warm palms lingering for a few more seconds, skin on skin and hoping to stretch out the moment just a little longer; the buzzing of the hallway already worming its way back in.

When your eyes opened again, he was already looking over your face with that smile, the stupid one, painting glistening lips. He winked when you found yourself blushing as his hands dropped to where yours still held him captive, fingernails caught around buttons; you brushed away the wrinkled evidence before he turned away to grab his books again.

He paused and you watched the back of his neck and ears color as he thought about what he’d just done in the very public, very not private hallway, courage gone now that the moment had passed and the buzzing was suddenly a roar again.

“Peter,” your hand brushed across the burning skin at his neck, fingertips musing messy little curls, pointy chin resting on a bony shoulder, “I love you,” you whispered into what was left of that private space between a heated, reddened ear; wispy toffee colored curls tickling at the tip of your nose.

“I know,” secret smile lacing his whispered words, pushing up at pink cheeks and puffy eyes; golden twinkle in the honey of his eyes as he turned to you to place a kiss over top the fine hairs at your temple, “I love you back, sweetheart.” He closed his locker door and started walking, pep back in his step as his courage returned momentarily.

“Where do you think you’re going, laser brain?” You called out over the noise, admiring the way he moved as he made his way down the hall, at the sound of his warmth as he laughed, humor lacing the words he threw over his shoulder.

“I’m going to go see a man about a wookie. A certain Princess mentioned something about a kiss.”

* * *

 

_**Let me know what you guys think. Feedback is always appreciated.** _


	2. Personal Space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you try your best to teach Peter a thing or two about boundaries.
> 
> _“Have you ever heard of personal space, Parker?” You whispered, words shaky and sounding a lot less confident than you were aiming for as his curls brushed past your ear..._
> 
> This is actually just fluff/borderline smut with little to no plot. Peter is 18+.

It hadn’t taken long for the two of you to forget about the chicken in the oven and the simmering vegetables on the stove. It wasn’t really much of a surprise all things considered. Peter _had_ been away with the Avengers for over a week. What _had_ surprised you was the way that your hug had turned into being snatched away from the stove, lifted, and placed firmly on a counter; warm hands running up cool legs to pull them apart and make room for a pair of slim hips.

It was surprising how quickly he could get your heart going.

Even after all this time.

“Have you ever heard of personal space, Parker?” You whispered, words shaky and sounding a lot less confident than you were aiming for as his curls brushed past your ear, warm, hot breath spilling over your skin as moist, teasing lips worked their way down your neck. The tense coil of heat in your belly burning as he chuckled against your flesh, already covered in goosebumps; your whole body shivered and you released a startled breath as his lips moved up to your ear.  
  
He smelt the way Peter always did but there was a hint of something like peppers, onions, and snap peas there too.

“Why?” he whispered, warm air blowing over your earlobe, voice like silk. He had one strong hand gripping your hip tightly, pulling yours closer to him, “does this bother you?” You released another breath as your center met with his, seam of your shorts and the zipper of his jeans sitting just right, ass slipping past the edge of the counter, sharp edges pinching a little, to wrap your legs firmly around his waist.  
  
The other hand and its fingers trailed up the blushing skin of your collar, ticklish fingers paving more goosebumps on the skin there on their way up into your hair. The pressure at your hip and the gentle touches at your neck like the contrasting parts of Peter; the soft, always gentle man who touched and loved like you were the most precious thing, but there was the confident, heavy handed man who was sometimes sure of himself, in his touch, and what it did in a way that you couldn’t necessarily argue against.

The confidence had come with age, with experience, with practiced motions and heated whispers.

His teasing was a relatively new development and _God_ if it didn’t leave you flustered.

His fingers cradled the back of your head, using their pull over you to tilt your head, making space for a pair of warm, chapped lips to place a teasing kiss behind your ear, right where you were most ticklish. Your body shivered again and you felt the curve of his lips as he smiled into your hair, “is this too personal?”

Both hands were now holding your hips with sweaty palms, fabric of your shorts pulling as they tightened, burning fingers teasing the exposed skin under the hem of your shirt.

Then he pulled your hips closer, words raspy as he whispered into the space of air above your ear, “Am I too close?” His hands squeezed, arms flexing, and then a groan slipped past his lips and into your ear as he ground his core into yours over the space of the counter. You moaned into the air above his shoulder when he did it again and again and again; hot open mouth coating the skin of your neck with moisture as he moved and breathed.

But then the hands you’d had firmly placed on the counter behind you slipped, sweaty palms squeaking across the surface as his hips pushed into yours; a pair of solid arms catching you before you could fall backwards into the bar.

A pair of wide, dark, brown eyes dressed in hot, flushed skin met your widened eyes and equally blushing cheeks.  
  
Then you were laughing and he was laughing, but then you weren’t any more when his hands were on your face and your hands were in his hair, and you were kissing, lips frantic and needy, and it was absolutely necessary that his hips be as close to yours as possible.  
  
Now it was all heavy breathing and pants and whines fluttering around the charged space and trying to pull as much of each other in as you could, trying to get as close as you could in the tiny kitchen and its counters.

Those hands slipped back out from underneath your shirt, from where his fingers had been working the skin of your breast to pull your shirt from you –

_“Oh boy…”_ a voice spoke from the living room; your heads whipping around, hands still, hearts pounding, looking past the hanging lights above the bar to see a wide eyed Ned, holding a hat and his coat in a pair of nervous hands.

For a moment you all remained frozen, eyes bouncing between each other. You were the first to start laughing, but then you were all laughing until Ned opened his mouth again.

“Well, what about me?” he asked, “Is there any for me?”  You raised an eyebrow and looked at your friend, trying to keep the smile from your face.

“Umm,” a nervous chuckle rumbled against your chest, “Ned, _what_?” Peter asked, his funny brow quirked.

“Oh,” Ned was a flurry of hands and blushing cheeks, his hat slipped from his fingers and he bent down quickly to pick it up. “No, no, no, come on guys, I meant dinner. Food, I mean. Food, guys. _Oh my God_.”

And then you were warm and laughing again as you slipped from arms and counters to finish what you’d been doing.

“Sure, Ned, sure.”


	3. Tell Me You See It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You decide to take a photography class to help Peter out with some work endeavors. He takes the class with you. It goes much better than you expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one works a little like ‘Have I told you?’ where the italicized bits are flash backs. I've separated these with line breaks to make it a little easier. Peter is older. (Also, I have no idea how pictures are processed in a dark room, so if you do, excuse my descriptions and hastily researched process.)
> 
> Just some good ol’ fashioned fluff.

It hadn’t taken too much convincing from your friend to finally sign up for the Photography workshop your college was offering. Taking photographs had never really been much more than a hobby.

It was Peter who had a knack for it.

His passion for capturing the world had recently turned into a way to make money to help his Aunt out with a few bills; his pictures of Queens’ very own friendly neighborhood vigilante gracing the cover of the Bugle nearly every issue.

The quality of the photos were astounding and frankly a little unbelievable; the angles and perspective such that it was difficult to comprehend how someone could possibly be in the right place and time, **_every time_ ,** to even obtain images of such class. How did Peter get up there? What was Peter even doing hanging around that part of town? What kind of lens was Peter using to get so much detail?

Why was no one asking these questions?

It was obvious to you, but then you also had the advantage of knowing that Peter was in fact taking photos of himself. 

Easy to take pictures of Spider-man when you’re Spider-man.

Which was why it had been an easy decision to sign up for the class; you were going to start helping Peter with his photos before anyone had the opportunity to develop any suspicion.

He had then signed up with you.

Your first assignment had been to pick a partner and over the course of the next week, work on taking portraits. _‘I really want you to focus on the quality of light. How does light affect the subject matter and vice versa?’_

* * *

 

_Peter stood from his seat next to you, throwing his backpack over his shoulder and adjusting the camera around his neck. Stepping around to the front of the table he gave you a grin, arms spread wide open, “Ok,” he brought his hands together with a clap, “so, let’s get started,” his eyes bright with excitement._

_Your fingers fiddled around with the shutter speed dial of your borrowed camera, turning it back and forth as you looked up at him._

_He had been late to class this morning, sliding in through the door in the back of the room and quietly slipping into the seat next to you, greeting you with a gentle hand on your shoulder._

_Looking at him now, your breath caught a little. Catching on the way that his naturally wavy hair was a little unkempt, a few stray curls loose over his forehead, that funny eyebrow of his a little more out of control than usual. The collar of his flannel shirt uneven and poking up towards his ear, the sleeves rolled up a little unevenly on each arm, showing off the smooth, tanned skin of his forearms. He hadn’t even managed to do up the buttons properly, the flannel not quite lining up at the wrinkled hem above his belt.  
_

_At least the jacket he wore looked in one piece._

_You chuckled a bit as you worked to get the lens cap off, bringing the camera up to your eye as quickly as you could, snapping a few shots in succession._

_You put the cap back on, standing to gather your things, tucking everything into your bag before walking around the table and reaching for his collar. He tensed as your fingertips brushed along his neck, and then into his hair, putting the loose locks back into place with the rest of his curls. Stepping back to look over your work, you gave him a grin and a nod, deciding to forego undressing the boy in public to fix his fumbled buttoning._

_“You’re a mess, Parker.”_

_Bringing his hands to his chest and tilting his head a bit at you, looking down at you through his lashes; “Come on, me? Peter Parker,” leaning in so that only you could hear, “Spider-man? I don’t think so.”_

_A curl had come loose again, sitting comfortably above the wild hairs of his eyebrow._

_Shaking your head at him as you laughed and walked towards the door, “Yeah, sure thing, Pete.” You looked back over your shoulder to see him following close behind, reaching a lanky arm above your head to push the door open for you._

_“Maybe you should learn to put a shirt on first before you go saying things like that.”_

_You wished you had your camera ready to catch the look of confusion on his face._

 

* * *

 

 

A week had passed quickly between work, your other classes, and the instance where Peter had come to your window the night before last after a particularly nasty run in with a group of armed burglars.

You swore these guys were getting better; like they were training or something. Peter kept coming to you with fresh bruises and gashes, although, luckily never deep enough to warrant sutures.

You suspected he wouldn’t ask you to sew up any wounds of his anyway, based on how patching up his suit had gone the last time he asked you to use a needle and thread.

He had given you his camera to take with yours to process the film. He had rushed off on the way to class, ripping the camera from his neck and thrusting it at you, giving you a hurried, sloppy hug before splitting off and into an alley.

The sight of an old tennis shoe being thrown over a dumpster and into the wall would’ve been funny if you didn’t know who it belonged to and what he was more than likely swinging off to.

You waited until he was out of sight before stepping into the alley to gather up all of his strewn articles of clothing. You muttered something about leaving clothes in a nice pile, and no wonder he couldn’t even button a shirt up, before tucking them into his backpack, pushing it behind a gutter, but only just, so that he would be able to find it.

That was how you ended up in the dark room enlarging the negatives from both cameras, working carefully with the CYM exposure settings, trying to get the timing and color density ratios correct. Peter had teased you about being a fan of doing things the hard way. _‘You know, there are these crazy things called digital cameras, where you can literally plug them into a computer, and print your photos out in seconds.’_

You assured him they would be better this way. Besides, you were here to learn, right?

You took your time carefully hanging up each photo as you finished them. Looking forward to seeing the finished product in the light. You hoped you had managed to get the coloration right on all of them, especially the ones you hadn’t taken for yourself.

After hanging up the last print on the line, you worked to clean up your mess. Your neck and shoulders were stiff from hunching over the baths and various equipment for hours. Wiping down the sink and workstation, you crossed the room to toss the paper towel in the trash and flip the light switch on. You took a second to stretch and to allow your eyes time to adjust before turning around to look at your work.

Peter was the only person who could affect your breathing without even being present.

You ignored the photos you had taken all together when the first of his series caught your eye. Seeing the negatives had been nothing like this. There had been no way to prepare yourself in the dim light for what you were seeing. Peter had talent. He had an eye. He was magic with a camera. _Something._

He had made you look _beautiful._

The first was of you laughing, your head thrown back, lips pulled tight across your teeth, eyes closed, hair caught in the breeze. One of your hands clenched at your stomach, the other reaching off camera. You were beneath a tree, the leaves in various shades of red and orange, contrasting against the bluish purple color of the sky. Your features were dark, but you were glowing all the same.

That had been the first day. You had gotten coffee and spent some time in the library researching dark room processing techniques; you couldn’t remember him pulling the camera out.

The next one was of you in the library, your form overshadowed by the endless rows of books lining the shelves that seemed to go on forever. He had caught you reaching for one, your arm extended above your head; you stood on the tips of your toes, long, slim fingers grasping; your hair tucked behind your ear, the ends curling around your jaw, brows pinched in effort; the hem of your shirt riding up to expose a sliver of skin above your hip. This person looked graceful, with elegant lines and curves; the light shining down from the ceiling above catching your features in all of the right ways.

He was a sneaky little dweeb.

He had made you look _beautiful._

As your eyes passed over each picture, your chest began to tighten and your eyes grew watery. Your fingers found your lips, worrying the flesh as you looked over the last image. You remembered him taking this one.

 

* * *

 

 

_He tossed his bag in first before tumbling into your room, one of his feet catching on the window ledge as the first half of him hit the carpet. You were on the floor in an instant, sliding your arms under his to lift him up and get a good look at him, pulling the mask off and brushing his bangs back from his forehead._

_He swatted your hands away from him, “I’m fine, stop fussing.” You stuck your tongue out at him, laughing when he gave it back._

_“Obviously not, you only show up at my window when you’re hurt.” He threw you a slightly dirty look, wiping at his mouth with a gloved hand._

_“That’s not true.” His eyes were on said hand and his dirty look was now directed at the blood he had collected. He looked at you then and immediately looked away when he saw your raised eyebrows and pointed expression._

_“OK, so maybe it’s a little true,” he pushed the emblem on his suit, rolling it down to his hips he began to assess himself, fingers pulling at his skin this way and that. You stood from your desk and walked around him, helping him to check his back and shoulders._

_While it was funny watching him try to contort himself so that he could get a look; the fluttering in your stomach was telling you to ease up on the ogling of his torso. Not that getting up close and personal with his back was really any better._

_He sat still as your fingers walked across his skin, gently prodding at the bruises you could see, apologizing when he winced at the ones you couldn’t. You reached into the drawer of your night stand for the antiseptic and gauze you kept for nights like this one._

_He had made showing up injured a habit, so you had made it yours to be prepared._

_“OK, that stings,” he looked at you over his shoulder, his lower lip jutting out in a rare pout._

_“OK, what happened to ‘I’m the amazing Spider-man, look at my muscles, I’m so tough?’” Even with your teasing you worked more gently, carefully passing the moistened gauze over a particularly nasty scrape on his shoulder blade. You could see his features pull into a smile through his reflection in the mirror hanging off your closet door.  
_

_You stopped momentarily to watch how he fiddled with the sleeves of his suit, at how his messy hair poked out around his ears, the way the strands of muscle in his forearms moved in time with his fingers._

_“Ouch. You know, not even the punks who did this to me were so harsh.” His eyes met yours in the mirror. You felt your cheeks flush at being caught watching him. You moved on to the cut behind his ear._

_“How did you even manage this one?” He hissed as you patted at the wound with the gauze, murmuring an apology, blowing on it to help ease the sting. You smirked as he tensed and shivered, the tops of his ears flushing red._

_“One of them had a knife,” he shrugged his shoulders, a few of the freckles he had splattered across his back dancing as the skin stretched, “almost didn’t see it.”  
_

_The nonchalance absolutely killed you._

_“Oh, well if that’s all.” You moved around to his front now, sitting on your knees as you wet a new sponge, tossing the first in the trash behind you. He hissed as you dabbed a little harshly at a scrape over his ribs, the muscles of his chest tightening, brows furrowing as he looked at you._

_“Yeah, but he didn’t **get** me.”_

_You stopped cleaning, and dropped your hands onto your lap, “Peter, are you serious? You have a cut, from a knife, behind your ear.”_

_“Yeah, but I stopped him.”_

_“Peter, that’s a little close to, I don’t know: your face, your brain, your eyes,” he was smiling at you now, and it was pissing you off, “stop me if any of those things sound important to you.”_

_“It’s been worse before. It’s a scratch.”_

_“Yeah,” you got up from the floor and moved to the seat at your desk. You looked down at the bloody sponge in your hand, a frown on your lips, hair falling around your face, “until it isn’t.”_

_You both remained quiet for a minute; you kept your eyes on your hands. You could feel his eyes on you._

_“That’s it.” You looked up at him in confusion as you watched him unzip his bag and pull his camera out._

_“What?”_

_“That’s why I come to you,” You continued to look at him, waiting for him to explain, not exactly hating the stupid smile on his face, “you care about me.”_

_A frustrated sound passed through your lips and you rolled your eyes at him, “Of course I do.”_

_“That, and I mean,” he gestured at you, his hand motioning at your face, a sound not unlike the one that had just come from your lips left his, “ **look** at you.”_

 

* * *

 

 

The lighting was soft, the only source of it being from the lamp on your desk. Your hair fell around your face framing it just so.  Even with your eyes cast down, long, dark lashes hiding the color of your eyes, the look on your face was one of happiness. He had caught the blush on your face, the warmth of it spreading down your neck; how you had trapped part of your lips between your teeth to keep from beaming. You hadn’t succeeded; a delicate little smile was still there. You were glowing. You were radiant. You looked like light itself.

He had made you _feel_ beautiful.

“Thank you,” You jumped at the sound of his voice, the picture you had been holding falling onto the table. You hadn’t even heard the door open. “You know, for collecting my clothes.” You gave a quick nod.

For a moment you just stood there smiling at each other, before he moved around the room, following the line that hung from wall to wall, looking at all of the photos the two of you had taken of the other. You watched as his actions mirrored what yours had been, his eyes lingering on the photos you had taken of him when he had been unaware. His eyes wrinkling as he smiled at more than one.

“You did a great job with these,” he stepped up to the table, leaning across from where you were standing and reached for the last photograph, the one of you he had taken that night.

Every part of his face softened as he looked at it.

He looked up at you with humor in his eyes, “Someone should tell this guy he’s good at this.” You laughed at him and watched as his eyes continued to roam over the print, setting it down on the table, fingers resting alongside it.

He let out a sigh, looking up to meet your eyes, “Tell me you see it.”

It wasn’t what you had expected him to say; you shook your head at him to show that you weren’t following.

“This.” He gestured to the cameras on the table in front of you and then around to all of the moments the two of you had captured on film, before pushing that last photo over for you to look at again.

“We’ve captured how we see each other,” you were smiling now, fingers playing with the edge of the photo, ghosting over the lines of your face that he had so perfectly captured; the point in time he had managed to save, “and look at how _beautiful_ you are.”

You were glad that he turned around to pull the rest of the pictures down from the line, giving you time to calm your rapidly heating face and chest. 

You watched as he fumbled a bit, his fingers shaking. The backs of his ears were red.

He walked back over to you, pushing the stack of images in your hands, his fingers holding onto yours, steadying, as you looked down at the picture of Peter you had taken resting on top. It was a lot like the one he had caught of you laughing; you remembered wanting to make sure you got the way the light shone through his hair and around his face, the way his eyes pinched at the corners, the lines of his neck and jaw as he laughed.  

You wanted him to know that you thought he was made of light, too.

His thumbs ran across the tops of your knuckles.

Before you really knew what you were doing, your lips were on his. It was quick and a little sloppy, but the smile he gave you when you pulled away told you that he didn’t care.

He took the photos from your hands and sat them on the table before reaching for your face and pulling you back to him. His sureness encouraging you, your arms wrapping around his neck, fingers weaving through his hair, the pressure of his lips increasing as the heat between you built. The ticklish sensation of his fingers gripping at your waist, his thumbs brushing against your ribs causing you to let out an embarrassing sound into his mouth; you could feel his answering smile against your lips. He pulled away from you then, resting his forehead on yours, that stupid smile on his face.

You continued to thread your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly at the ends, “So are you wanting me to tell you that I think you’re pretty, too?”

He laughed at you, shaking his head, gesturing to the photos and then kissing the tip of your nose, “No, you’ve already told me everything.”


	4. Without You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'It made sense: why the dampness on your chest had been this strange, heated, sticky thing that had spread over your skin from Peter’s suit, why your brain had questioned the lack of chill and had alerted you to the tangy, metallic scent in the air...'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter and reader have been together for a long time.
> 
> Warnings: This is a little gory. Or a lot. It’s a lot gory.

The tightly woven sheet of clouds outside your window blanketed the sliver of a moon hanging high in the sky, offering none of its luminance to the city below, making the already cold, rainy night seem even more dreary and off-putting in its darkness; darkness that made it difficult to see him in your equally blackened room. The masked form of him had practically fallen into your arms the moment you’d slid the window of your shared bedroom open at the sound of his panicked knocking, the entire weight of him supported by your chest; your back protesting the angle; his wet, sticky arms around your neck as he slumped against you.

When the bridge of his nose found the crook of your shoulder he released a soggy sigh into the skin there.

The dampness of his suit spread over the front of you, your borrowed t-shirt quickly soaking through and warming your skin. He groaned when you shifted, an arm pulling too tightly at his back to prevent him from sliding down your body, chests smashing together as you tried your best to support his drooping, lethargic form. “Hey, c’mon,” you encouraged as you started taking slow, measured steps towards your bed, his booted feet lagging and unintentionally smashing against your bare toes. “Peter, hun, you’re really heavy.”

He nodded, the corrugated material of his suit chaffing against your wet skin. You freed up an arm to pull his mask off, his wet hair sticking to the insides, lifting as you freed the strands and flopping back down onto his ears and forehead, dampened curls sticking to his skin as you dropped the fabric to the ground at your feet.

“Pete?” you adjusted your arms again, looping them underneath his, pulling his face from off of your shoulder, his chin bouncing off of a bony collar, to get a better look at him, “Peter, what’s wrong?” His hands hung limply at his sides, cascading pitifully over the tops of your own. When his eyes met yours, you were startled by how utterly exhausted he looked; the darkness in the room accentuating the bruised coloration beneath dull brown. It was the color of his skin that bothered you most, or really, the lack of; so pale that his skin was nearly glowing, rain water and sweat glistening, his clamminess casting its own ghastly light.

You furrowed your brows, voice escaping you in a whisper, “ _Peter?”_

“I need to lie down,” he muttered, voice soft as he looked away from you and angled his body in the direction he wanted you to guide him in.

“Ok, yeah, sure,” you managed.

You succeeded in dragging him over to the bed, pushing the blankets you had hurriedly whipped off of your legs at the sound of his beckoning out of the way and settling him in onto wrinkled sheets. Satisfied with the way his pillow cradled the back of his head and neck, you turned and crossed over to your dresser, switching on the lamp at its corner.

As the light traveled across the room it brought a shocking revelation with it; a trembled gasp ejected from your lungs, every hair on your body stood on end as you caught sight of yourself in the mirror hanging on the wall above the wooden furnishing. 

It made sense: why the dampness on your chest had been this strange, heated, sticky thing that had spread over your skin from Peter’s suit, why your brain had questioned the lack of chill and had alerted you to the tangy, metallic scent in the air.

You felt your stomach hit the floor, felt as it pulled all of the heat from your face and chest with it.

“Oh my god.” You couldn’t help but to begin to shake, nerves quickly winning out over your limbs.

You looked like a macabre scene from an old horror film with the way his blood coated the front of you. A despicably sanguineous abstract painting of Peter’s life decorated the whole of your chest and abdomen, the pale blue color of your shirt unseen as the purpled darkness of his substance continued to leech through the threads.

“Oh my god, P-Peter.” You were full on trembling now, gasping for air as you began to panic.

But it was on your skin, too. All down the length of your arms, tangling with the fine hairs that were at attention. You turned to look at Peter then, hands moving to cover your lips at the sight of his limp form, at the ugly stain spreading beneath his suit; your hands stopping abruptly as they reached eye level. His blood had run into the crevices and channels of your fingers, underneath your fingernails; the skin at the joints of your fingertips sticking as you clenched and unclenched your fists.

There was so much of it and he was still losing.

You were going to be sick; now was not the time.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. Your dirty hands found the hem of his old shirt and ripped it from you, throwing the offending thing into the farthest corner of your room. You were nude from the waist up; dewy, pink, plasma-like fluid running down your skin in the places he had most soaked.

His suit had done a good job of hiding how badly injured he was. The thin slices through the fabric alerted you to what you were likely to see. It was only as your shaking fingers rolled the top half of his suit down past his ribs, peeling away gently at the places that had already begun to dry, that you noticed you were crying.

Peter’s chest was mangled, he had been slashed from nipple to nipple one way and from nipple to navel the other. The latter of the two wounds had left his skin flayed wide open, the edges jagged and oozing, parts of it unveiling the pink sinewy tissue of the muscle beneath.

He had two large lacerations on his lower abdomen, flesh torn across his hip where the blade had sunk into his flesh and had then been ripped out; you were relieved momentarily as you realized whoever had knifed him hadn’t managed to penetrate anything vital. Peter had spared himself of that at least. Then there was also the issue of the exposed pearly, white bone of his hip peeking out at you from amongst the red.

But his chest was still moving. 

Up and down it moved, in time with the air you could hear him drawing in shakily through his nose; wounds stretching as he did so. A shaky palm found a place over his heart; the fluttery feeling of it beating against your skin helping to calm the frantic pounding in your chest.

You took in another deep, steadying breath.

The watery mess of your eyes made it nearly impossible to see as you dared a glance at his face. He was looking at you, watching you with hooded eyes, his face shockingly white, more obvious now under the exposure of light; his wild, dark hair standing out in stark contrast to the pale color. A wet sob pushed past your lips and a bloodied hand wiped roughly at the tears and snot running down your face.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I could only think to get here. I had to get to you.”

You shook your head at him, a wayward tear breaking free from your chin and falling onto his chest, “Peter, look at you, I-I can’t - ” A pale, too-cold hand came to rest over the one on his chest.

“You can,” his fingers squeezed at yours weakly, “Please, [Y/N.]”

You were shaking your head again at his words, eyes closed in an attempt to block out the sight of him broken and bleeding; but you couldn’t un-see it; it would probably haunt your dreams for the rest of your life.

“I can’t, you’re asking too much of me, Peter. We have to take you to someone else, a hosp - ”

“No.” He cut you off, his tone firm and making you open your eyes to look at him again, carefully avoiding the sight of his chest. “It has to be you. You know that.”

Your eyebrows furrowed at him then, leveling your gaze; you could feel the puffiness of your eyes against your cheeks, burning; you could feel that they were reddened, moisture still pooling at the corners and overwhelming your eyelashes.

“Please.” You looked away from him, taking a moment to absorb the sight of him lying on the bed in the reflection of the mirror, at his profile and the straight line of his nose and jaw as he continued to look at you; seeing just how pitiful the two of you looked together as you huddled close to his prone form on the blood stained sheets. The color of your naked chest and arms contrasting greatly with the red, inflamed skin of his. 

You had smeared some of his blood on your face. 

The hand not on yours was clenching tightly at the loosed fabric of his suit, red and blue balled up in his palm, knuckles white and strained against the skin there; he was trying to hide his pain from you. But you knew. His entire being was screaming it at you.

“I _can’t_ do this without you.” When you met his eyes again, they were glistening, brown like mud.

“Ok, Peter.”

It would be a long night.

There would be no erasing the sounds he had made as you’d pushed that needle through his burning skin over and over, or the way he’d choked on his sobs, biting his tongue, his lips, and cheeks to keep them from you as best as he was able as you pulled the thread tight after each pass. 

His whole body had trembled and he’d nearly screamed as you’d cleaned his wounds with disinfectant, any color that he had left to tinge his skin with the signs of life vanished, sucked out of him like the air he blew through his teeth as he clenched down on his jaw, sinewy muscles popping along the lines of it.

There’d been a moment where his heart and breathing had settled enough for him to lean a head full of wet hair back into you, your breasts cradled snugly between shoulder blades as he relaxed his tired body against you, face leaning into yours to whisper at the corner of your mouth, “I’m crazy about you,” he’d said, “I hope you know that.”  

Your lips had found his temple, pressing a light kiss to the skin there, nose sifting through wet curls as your hands continued drawing the warm bath water up his arms, his waist, his chest, freeing the rest of him of that ugly red.

You’d never cried so much as you did that night. That terribly, horribly long night.

He often asked too much of you.

But for him, you would do it. You would always, for him.

* * *

**_As always, feedback is appreciated! Thank you for reading!_ **


	5. Sleeping on the Couch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both reader and Peter have been friends for many years. As time has passed and they’ve matured, so have their feelings for one another. Those feelings come to fruition in the midst of a storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _'“I like the way you smell in the rain.” His confession startled you a bit, catching you off guard and making you laugh...'_
> 
> Literally canned cheese.

As you pulled out your phone and found his number in your contacts list, you walked down the busy sidewalk, looking at the sky above you, watching as it darkened; the wind beginning to shift, blowing a few loose pieces of hair into your face. You remembered vaguely hearing something about a line of severe storms set to blow through over the weekend. The people around you began to hustle, picking up the pace as the first sound of rumbling from overhead disturbed the air.

After four rings, he picked up, “Hello?” You couldn’t help but to smile at the sound of his voice.

“Hey, Peter, what time do you want me to head over?” Another clap of thunder sounded above you, the wind beginning to really whip up; you dodged a swirling clump of trash as it tore past you along the curb. You spat a particularly irritating chunk of hair from between your lips.

“It sounds like it’s getting pretty bad out there,” his voice was full of concern, “why don’t you just come over now?”

Before you could answer him, a vibrant and rather large bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, the resounding thunder that followed rumbling through your chest. As unsettling as it was to be outside, you loved when the weather was like this.

“How close are you? I’m heading outside to find you.”

“No, no, Peter…” He had hung up. It was just a storm. You only had a few more blocks to go before you reached his apartment.

The clouds above you were an ominous shade of gray, only just beginning to release some of their contents; the heavy droplets weighing down your eyelashes as you picked up the pace. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught a flash of red and blue.

The dork had actually put on his suit to swing in and save you from the rain. 

It was now pouring. It was impressive as to how quickly the busy streets had cleared of nearly everyone.

You stopped and watched as he spotted your pathetically, wet, and baggy figure; his graceful, self-assuredness as he moved through the air was something you would never get tired of seeing. You loved when he allowed himself to feel confident.

You let out a laugh as he swung down and swooped you up into his arms; he laughed with you as the two of you swung from building to building before landing on the roof of his apartment building. The two of you peeling away from each other with slight difficulty; that suit had to be uncomfortable when wet.

“Oh, Spider-man,” you ran your hands down his arms before joining your hands together and putting them under your chin, batting your eyelashes, “my hero!”

You didn’t need to see his face to know that he was rolling his eyes at you, “Hey now, I was afraid you were going to melt.” The back of your hand playfully batted at his shoulder as he opened the door to the stairs. He had a bag waiting for him tucked away in the corner of the stairwell; he quickly pulled out a pair of pants and a long sleeve shirt, throwing them over his suit, peeling his mask off before giving you a grin.

“Hello.”

“Hi.”

He grabbed his bag, throwing it over one of his shoulders as he offered his other hand out to you. You took it, loosely linking a few of your fingers together with his as he led you to his door.

Immediately you noticed the distinct lack of one of your favorite people, “Where is May?”

He dropped his bag on the floor by his bed, going over to his closet to pull out a pair of shorts and a sweater, offering them to you. “I thought I mentioned she was visiting an old high school friend this weekend. She’s in Jersey.”

He began to strip, your cheeks lighting up as you quickly turned around. You heard him hopping around as he struggled to get his suit off. You waited until you heard him hanging it up in his closet to turn around to face him again.

You were impressed with your self-control.

“Oh.” It had been a long time since the two of you had been completely alone.  You had been friends for as long as you could remember. Things had gotten complicated as the two of you matured. He was attractive. You were attractive. You cared for one another. It was a problem.

He sensed your nervousness, tilting his head in your direction with a raised brow, continuing to dig through his closet for a sweater to put on himself. “Is that OK?”

A problem for you anyway.

“Yeah, yeah,” you tried to sound as calm about it as you could, “it’s just that I kind of told my mom I was staying here tonight.” He pulled your favorite sweater of his over his torso.  You stood fiddling with the clothes he had given you, passing the ball of fabric between both hands.

“May knows you’re here,” his voice tinged with humor, “she even ordered us some food, it’s in the fridge.” You nodded your head, looking towards the ground.

Peter walked over to you, his hands reaching out to yours, stilling the clothes you had yet to stop playing around with. “I’ll sleep on the couch, you can sleep in here if it really bothers you that much, OK?”

“Always so chivalrous, Parker.”

“I don’t know that I would go that far.”

“Sure thing, Spider-man.” He grinned at you, turning back to his backpack and pulling out his history textbook; you had a project that needed finishing over the weekend. You stepped out of his bedroom and into the bathroom to get yourself changed into dry clothes.

Standing in front of the mirror, you couldn’t help but notice the flush in your cheeks, how your damp hair was slightly curled at the ends; how small you looked in his sweater. You would be lying to yourself if you were to pretend you hadn’t noticed how much Peter had grown almost overnight when it had happened. The first thing you had noticed were his shoulders.

Satisfied with your appearance, you headed back into his room; the darkness of the clouds from outside broken up by the frequent flashes of lightning; flashes that lit up the best parts of his face as he looked at you. You could feel the flush on your cheeks deepening as his gaze lingered.

“I should offer you my sweaters more often,” he said softly, patting the chair next to him that he had pulled in from the kitchen. He had set out the food May had ordered; two forks and a few napkins ready to go, textbook open, and a blank document ready in word.

By the time you had finished eating and had returned the leftovers to the fridge, the storm had worsened and the power had gone out. It was nearly pitch black in the apartment. The sound of his textbook closing frightening you a bit as it closed in tandem with the thunder outside.

“Well, at least we got a little bit of work done,” you spoke in his general direction, the lightening highlighting his form, confirming that he had still not moved. The wind outside was now howling.

“Do you have any candles?” You heard him get up and leave the room. His vision was much better than yours in the dark; one of the many perks to his being a super hero. He returned with a single lit candle, setting it down on his bedside table.

“How’s that?”

“Smells like cinnamon.”

In the dim light, you could see that he had settled on his bed, one leg hanging off the side, an arm draped lazily across the top of his pillow, eyes closed; long lashes resting on his cheeks. You sat there observing him, taking in what you could see.

“I like the way you smell in the rain.” His confession startled you a bit, catching you off guard and making you laugh.

“What?”

“I like the way you look in the rain, too.” You looked down at your hands in your lap, weaving them together, tugging on each finger. Your heart was fluttering. You looked up to see him looking at you.

“Come over here.” You didn’t think it was possible for your heart to beat any faster. When did his confidence begin to stay with him out of his suit?

“Peter…” You were afraid of where this was going. Thrilled, excited, but terrified. You knew that he liked you, but never would have imagined that either one of you would ever work up the courage to allow for those feelings to grow. Was that what this was? Or was the weather outside playing with your nerves?

No. It was all him. He made you nervous when he looked at you through his lashes like that.

He gave you an encouraging grin; the flame of the candle reflecting in his already twinkling eyes had you caught. You crossed the room, your body hovering over his for a moment as you settled yourself next to him on his bed.

You took comfort in knowing you were affecting him in the same ways he was you; both of your hearts were racing, you could almost hear it over the sound of the rain pummeling into the window. Maybe he had used up all of that confidence with his admissions.

Your hand found his; you held your breath waiting for his reaction. He wove his fingers through yours, giving them a light squeeze. For a moment, you both held your breath, looking up at the ceiling, listening to the world outside.

He took in a deep breath and then pulled your joined hands up to his lips, the warmth of him dancing across your fingers, a ticklish sensation making its way down your arm as his lips closed over your knuckles.

You turned to each other then, breathing heavy, your eyes on his lips, his eyes on yours; neither one of you aware of the proximity closing in, neither one of you aware of the magnetic force that was pulling you together.

“Peter…”

And then he was everywhere. He invaded all of your senses the moment your lips met. The warmth of him, the shared warmth; the heat building as your lips worked with his. 

Breath catching as you nibbled on his lower lip.

His hands found their way into your hair, fingers tight, down your neck, your waist, and then back into your hair, hand clenching as you did the same to his. He pulled your head back gently, his mouth working the sensitive spots of your neck; your fingers digging into his shoulder blades. 

Your hips met with his and then you _were_ melting.

What was it about the dark that brought people together?

What was it about insecurity that ripped people apart?

As one of his hands found its way under the sweater you wore, fingertips grazing the bottom of your breast, the questions in your mind won out over the feel of him.

One hand found purchase on his chest, gently tapping at him, asking for him to wait without pushing him from you. You didn’t want the heat of him gone from you. His hands went right to your face, holding your chin between his hands; fingers brushing a few wild hairs from your eyes.

“What’s wrong?” His normally thin lips were plumped and red, his cheeks flushed, his eyes wide, his breath coming out needy and wanting. The slightly less confused part of you giddy at having affected him in such a way.

“Is this real? Are we really doing this?” Your voice barely above a whisper. He furrowed his brows at that, not quite understanding what you were getting at.

“Of course it’s real.” His thumb traced over the outline of your lips.

“When the storm passes…”

“It will be real then, too.”

“When the sun rises?”

“Of course.”

“OK.”

His lips brush across your forehead, and you smile up at him as he pulls your form into his, tucking your head into his chest and wrapping his arms around you.

“You are the only person that I’m really sure of.” You lift your head to press a kiss to the underside of his chin, and his arms tighten around you slightly. For a moment, you listen to his racing heart, counting the beats as it slows.

“So, do I still have to go sleep on the couch?”


	6. The Hard Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter Parker shows off his terrible acting skills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is told from Peter's point of view.
> 
> Warnings: Soft-core innuendo.

“Please, Peter?” her voice still hanging on to sleep, warm and tickling as she whispered; fingertips clever as they twirled through the curls resting atop a still pillow warmed ear. He couldn’t keep the corner of his mouth from quirking into a lazy grin as he shivered; tiny hairs standing on end, at attention, for more of her attention, as she moved down the length of his back with smooth, gentle strokes.

“Time to get up, sleepy boy,” a warm kiss finds his shoulder; skin igniting.

Her breaths were soft at his ear, eyelashes tickling at golden cheeks as she leaned in, and he was full on smiling now as her fingers tap danced over each of her favorite freckles, “I know you’re hearing me.” A thumbnail traces the curve of his lips to make her point.

“You’re a terrible actor, Peter Parker.”

A laugh escapes from between his lips before he can catch it, so he squeezes his eyelids together more firmly to make up for it.

“Peter.”

Soft fingertips now firm as they fight over the comforter, the full weight of her pinning him as she straddles his legs; bony knees astride the backs of his.

Well-worn fabric brushes over the bridge of his nose before she manages to tug it down again, giving up with a huff when he snugs it up around his chin, submersing himself in what was left of their shared heat before she’d shimmied out from under the covers.

_“Peter.”_

“I’m sorry, Peter can’t come to the conversation right now, please leave a message between REM cycles;” his voice scratchy, one eye peeks as she laughs; never one to miss an opportunity to catch her bathed in happiness, even if only through the sheer curtain of mischievous eyelashes.

Her laughter bleeds into his chest as she leans forward into him, the heated lines of her melting into him, filling him up as she always does when her body meets with his.

She knows; she feels full, too, always.

And for a moment, it’s quiet save for the pull of two pairs of lungs, two hearts, working in concert; both wide awake but drowsy with the feel of each other.

He feels her smile, lips pulling at the skin between his shoulder blades as they curve towards her cheeks.

“You really have to get up. You promised, remember?”

And he did, of course he did.

But he loved playing this game with her, too.

“But I’m _really_ comfortable.”

“I’ll tickle you,” she threatened weakly, fingers already prodding at his ribs.

“That’s ok. No problem. Good night.”

He threw in a snore for good measure, eyes crinkling as she sucked her tongue at him in frustration.

“We can do this the hard way, Parker.” Jaw tensing as he bit down on his cheek to keep from giggling, doing his absolute best to keep from squirming as her fingers tickled at his sides.

“The _hard_ way? Is that a challenge, sweetheart?” She pulled at his waist, motioning for him to roll over. When he did, her eyes met with his half-lidded ones; delicate eyebrow quirked as she adjusted her center to rest over his, knees squeezing blanketed hips.

Her fingers teased at the trail of hair below his belly button, every light touch coaxing more color to his cheeks.

“I can fight dirty,” she whispered; he was more focused on the way she moved against him as she leaned forward for emphasis, suddenly drowning in the heat of her; lungs heavy and forgetting how to work. He noticed her eyes, how they lingered on his neck, watching his throat trip over itself as he swallowed.

“Um, are you trying to get me _out_ of bed or convince me to stay, because you’re doing a _really_ bad job of the first.”

She smiled, her lips hovering over the base of his throat, hot breath teasing at the skin there; his eyes closing fully again, readying himself for the way he knew it would feel when she crossed that aching sliver of air between her and him, paving the rest of his body as thickly as she already had, as she was, hips pressing down, hips rolling as she preyed on his neck.

His hands were seeing themselves to her thighs; blazing the trail to her hips.

“Please, Peter?” Her words and lips feather light as she seared heat into his skin.

He wasn’t breathing in the room anymore, just holding her in.

_Please?_

Yes, definitely. Yes.

But then it was cold, his hands were empty; throbbing, and she was laughing, already half way across the room by the time he’d released that breath in the shape of a frustrated groan, “Rude.”

“I warned you. _Dirty_ , Parker.”

“Using your feminine charms against a poor boy who was just trying to get some much needed rest,” he mumbled beneath the arm he’d thrown dramatically across his eyes, “You know, being a super hero is hard work, especially in this - ”

“Get up, Peter.”

“OK, fine, but later –“

“That depends on how quickly you get ready now, _sweetheart_.”

They were both laughing as he tripped over himself, making a show of throwing his clothes on at warp speed.

* * *

 

_**Let me know what you guys think. Feedback is always appreciated.** _


	7. Starlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is patient and understanding, always there when you’re ready and need him the most.  
> Or: sometimes you fall out of orbit and he has to remind you of gravity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _'A mask that he knew and could see through, but yet still let you keep; identity a secret until you were ready to pull it over your head.'_
> 
> Warnings/Triggers: Anxiety/Depression (And metaphors out the wazoo, sorry.)

Half way through the day, as it sometimes happened, this heaviness, deep and painful like the cramp you get when someone hits a little too hard, settled into your chest and the tightness you were all too familiar with gripped at your throat the way your eyes do as they work to pull sadness from deep inside; mind fraying at the edges a little as the result of a rogue train of a thought that had fallen off the tracks a little too close to your heart.  

Sometimes you could push that thing on your chest away with thoughts more in line with how your heart ached when you looked at the sky on a clear night or when **_he_** smiled and his eyes lit up just like the bright points of your favorite constellations.

But sometimes you couldn’t.

Sometimes you had to let it win.

That thing, it got heavier and your throat got tighter and your eyes pulled harder and no matter what you did to just get through the day long enough to make it to that safe place where you could let that monstrous thing do its worst, it ravaged your body and bled the creek beds of your soul dry, and any energy you could have possibly mustered from all of those rivers running through you was spent on conjuring a mask so that no one could suspect that you were being crushed by violent waves.

A mask that **_he_** knew and could see through, but yet still let you keep; identity a secret until you were ready to pull it over your head.

You just had to make it to safety; to a cold room, where it was quiet and no one asked anything of you and you could just let it rage until the hurricane of emotion passed and you could assess the damage in calmer seas.

And then after, **_he’d_** be there with nebulous eyes full of starlight and life, all warmth and things known and unknown, but familiar and comforting like the moon.

It was because of **_Peter_** that you could, every so often, let that thing win, because after it all, he would be there to remind you that it was OK to feel. He would remind you with sunset eyes and sunrise words that most of the time, feeling was good and happy and kept your chest floating in the weightlessness of him.

As soon as you’d gotten home you’d collapsed. The weight of the day, this terrible day that really wasn’t _truly_ so terrible, but felt like it, to you, and always did when that troll of a thing dwelling inside crept out from under that bridge; like the world had exhausted itself of every bad thing, forcing the thick, acrid gas of gloom into every crevice of your brain. Eyes wet with salted hurt, pained chest dripping from dark lashes and down heated cheeks before you’d even made it to your shared room; shoes and clothes flying every which way so that you could crawl into battle unencumbered, settling yourself beneath fox-hole sheets as gun powder black flak burst in the sky of your mind, and machine gun fire pounded at your heart.  

Under cover, you detonated, and the tears flowed and sounds you couldn’t really keep from coming out of you filled the humid space of safety until eventually, you had nothing left to cry and instead just drew in deep, shuttering breaths of mustard gas air and trembled and stared off into deep space, not really looking for anything, but looking for starlight at the same time.

In the aftershock of battle, as the smoke had cleared and the sky started to reveal itself, you’d failed to notice the stars had been there all along; had been witness to nearly the whole scene, quietly observing with a pained expression like dark clouds burnt with purple and white from the flashes of lightning raging from their cores.

He’d let you cry yourself out and steady your breathing before he took a slow step towards you; you cringed a little as the man who was made from only the greatest parts of the Universe, walked cautiously towards you the way you did when walking across a mine field in deserts with winds that whipped sand across soft, delicate freckles like biting sandpaper.

The sun was blazing in his glossy eyes as he knelt by the foot of the bed, fingers reaching underneath covers to find the cold tips of yours, “ _Oh_ , sweetheart,” he whispered, voice sweet and warm and enough to create whole new galaxies inside you, “are you OK? Do you need more time?”

And even though you were exhausted and nearly drained of everything, the morning star in the brown of his eyes was enough to spark at the plug in the pit of your chest, uncorking it and draining the rest of that heaviness from you; that safety you’d been waiting for since that air raid siren had blasted at your brain was suddenly right in front of you, tickling at rapidly warming fingers.

No, no you didn’t need any more time away from the star you gravitated around; the further you drifted away from him, the more erratic your orbit became, and in the end, you couldn’t escape the pull he had on you, his gravity always stabilizing, always safe.

You gave him a tiny, watery smile and lifted the covers in invitation, in answer.

“Right, OK,” he nodded, voice still soft, as he kicked off his shoes and crawled in next to you.

When the firm planes of his chest met your back and his hips pressed into yours and knees pushed at the backs of knees, an almost straight nose finding its way home behind your ear, your entire body restarted and the nerves in all of the places you touched pushed the rest of that dark thing out of you in one, big, relieved sigh that pushed past full, salt-stained lips out into the blackness of the night outside your window in the form of a name.

“ _Peter_ ,” you breathed, and the rings of his arms wrapped fully around his planet and then lips that knew how to paint the atmosphere of your chest with all of the colors imaginable kissed any place they could land on; hot impact craters of feeling peppering your body. 

You breathed that name into the night again and again, sounds and syllables you couldn’t really keep from coming out of you filled the humid space of safety  with brightness and heat; molten core of you glowing as calloused fingers walked across the battle scarred moon of your skin not for the first time, but in all of the ways that were necessary and essential to the creation of those good feelings that reminded you of what you had, what you knew, what he knew.

* * *

 

**_I’m going to be honest: I’m proud of this. I hope you love this as much as I do._ **


	8. A Good Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A good morning full of sunshine, laughter, flowers, shoulders, and swing sets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _'He did it with kind, cryptic, sugary words, sunshine lips, and rose bud blushes...'_
> 
> As always - WARNING. GRATUITOUS METAPHORS NO ONE ASKED FOR.

_Today was a good day_ , you decided, punctuating the thought with a soft smile, eyelashes relaxed and comfortable lazing on the bed of your cheeks.

After nearly a full week of dark rainy days and cold, cloudy nights, it was just so _nice_ to be sitting out in the open air, morning sun warming you to the core, spreading the skin of your upturned face with buttery rays. You could still smell the rain, wafting from puddles and dewy grass; the perfume of moist earth and wet flowers hanging in the still-thick air, carried on the gentle breeze blowing through leaves on the trees whispering their good mornings to anyone listening. Little, excited birds singing to you in the same tune as the laughing children playing on slides and swings behind you.

You drew in a deep breath of that heady, _good_ air, noticing that there was a new, familiar note to it as it reached your lungs; it was heavier, but the same: sunshine, warm honey, and musky thunder storms. You heard the sound of a shutter closing, lips curling and lashes fluttering open as his voice greeted your ears.

“Man,” his voice warm and fitting the day, “How are you so damn photogenic?” His brows were scrunched over the top of his view finder, fingers of one hand awkwardly posed around the camera he had started carrying around with him after he’d found it tucked away in a box of his Uncle’s things.

“I’m not really, you’re just a real deal photographer,” but you were blushing because you knew what he was actually saying, “ _you_ make me photogenic.” From underneath his camera you could see a crooked smile on his thin lips because he knew what you were actually saying, too, grinning as his thumb pushed at the advance lever and his finger pressed down on the shutter release and with another click he’d captured that light blush and shy smile.

_Today is a good day._  
  
He made you photogenic.

He did it with kind, cryptic, sugary words, sunshine lips, and rose bud blushes.

When he put the camera back in its place over his chest, dusty old leather strap tightening around the back of his neck as it hung, you could see his sun-kissed face and cheeks that were pink flower petals like yours.

He stood there looking at you as you looked at him, light from the morning star shining through brunette curls and lighting them on fire, catching on his eyelashes; a sunrise, light lining his earth colored eyes. The smile on both of your faces going shy as he caught himself, looking down at the way you had your knees pulled up to your chest and arms wrapped around shins on the slightly dampened bench instead of pink lips, pink cheeks, and little frizzy hairs.

“I, um, brought you coffee,” the hand he’d kept hanging by his hip coming to brush against yours as he took a step forward, offering his caffeinated gift, “just the way you like it.”

“Thanks, Pete,” fingertips brushing past each others, tingling as they often did when your skin met; the feeling much warmer than the heated cup he slid into your hand.

You took a sip and looked up at eyes waiting for approval, “Just the way I like it,” you said with a nod, and this time your smile wasn’t shy, it was grateful and sure of itself; chest warm from more than the coffee. 

The corners of his eyes crinkled in the way you liked.

“Where’s Ned at,” you asked after another sip, brown eyes that were always watching following the path it took as you swallowed, “I thought he was meeting us here?” You watched nervous fingers fiddling around with the zipper of his jacket, metal tinkling as it moved when he shrugged his shoulders.

“I’m not sure,” his gaze moving past you and over at the vacant swing set hidden behind swinging branches of playful trees, “but, we could have some fun while we wait.” He was already walking away from your quiet, cozy bench and towards rust and squeaky chains.

“C’mon, [Y/N]” he called from over his shoulder, lean, lanky legs having already carried him most of the way to the faded rubber of the seats. You laughed when he walked to stand behind one of them, hands wrapping around chains, eyebrows and lips rising as he waited for you, poised and ready to push.

You laughed at the expression on his face, walking over to him, steaming gift resting on the mulch beneath your feet as you took a wobbly seat between chains and strong arms that held you in place; your body buzzing between the sliver of space between your back and his chest that smelt like the morning.

_Today._

“Ready?” he asked and his voice was light and fluttery like your heart, your body swayed as his arms pushed at rattling chains. The back of your head bounced off his chest.

You shook your head, “Wait, no, not yet,” a few strands of wild hair clinging to the fabric of his shirt.

You adjusted your hips one last time, wiggling, hinges of the seat squeaking, Peter chuckling, until the hard edges settled against your skin comfortably, the tops of nervous fists resting under warm ones.

“Ok, now I’m ready,” you nodded, looking over your shoulder and up at a pointy chin with a smile.

“You sure? Really, really sure?”

“Peter, just push me,” his honeyed laugh drizzling welcome ears with its sweetness, chest close enough to your back that you felt it in yours.

“Yes ma’am,” and then you were moving and the air was sliding between your hair and over your skin, kissing at the places where hands were touching. You were both laughing, and his hands were on top of yours instead of chains as he pushed, fingers clasping and unclasping as the space around you pushed and pulled the way your heart did as he laughed.

It surprised you when he wasn’t behind you anymore, but instead in front, cheeky expression on his face, eyes alight with mischief. Your body jerked awkwardly to the side when he stopped your swinging with a pair of arms before completely surprising you yet again, heart leaping from your chest and stomach clenching as he wrapped them around your waist, messing up his curls as a broad shoulder met with your belly and you were being lifted and swung over his back; the world full of laughter, shivering metal, and air you were losing track of leaving excited lungs.

“Peter!” you exclaimed, blood rushing to your face, voice sounding funny as you hung, arms grasping at belt loops and pockets at hips, clinging to a jacket, tightening as a too-hot hand wrapped itself around a nervous thigh and another found your back, a few fingertips sliding past the fabric there and tickling at bare skin.

Then you were laughing because he’d started twirling, and your hair was in your mouth, but so was his name, which was _good_ because it matched with the day; the sunshine, sweet honey, flower petals, and the lingering smell of rain.

“Peter! Quit it!” You exclaimed, but he knew what you actually meant because he didn’t stop, he just kept laughing as he ran around the swing set with you hanging over his shoulder, camera bouncing clumsily between a shaking chest and less nervous legs. He didn’t even stop when he stumbled, kicking over your coffee; which was OK, because this was a good day.

He was touching you and laughing and it was good.

It wasn’t until your eyes caught sight of the figure standing with arms crossed and a grin on his face that you suddenly felt embarrassed, cheeks blazing at having been caught. 

“Peter, really, quit it,” you said a little more seriously, hand tapping at his back trying to get his attention.

But he was still stuck on the morning and the sun.

Ned was still looking at you both with a smug expression.

“Peter Benjamin Parker,” fists demanding his attention as they rapped at his back, _“Put me down!”_

He stopped moving then, smile still lingering on his words, “Yeesh, OK, OK,” he said as he bent his knees enough for you to slide off of his shoulder and your feet to mix with mulch, “no need for full names. You’d think I was in trouble or something.” He stood smiling at you, cheeks pushing at puffy eyes as you worked to adjust your shirt and fix your hair. He noticed your blush, the light in your eyes that hung like the sun in the sky, the laughter that still worked at your chest. 

Then you watched as he clued in, as he noticed that your eyes were focused on a point over the shoulder you’d touched.

“Oh,” his cheeks were made of flower petals again when he turned around, “good morning, Ned,” hands that he’d been sure of moments ago shoving into the safety of pockets.

And bless it if Ned didn’t say anything, he just smiled and smiled and it was _good._


	9. A Slip Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'Don’t think about why that thing is glistening, Peter. Friendly neighborhood, Spider-Man, not creepy, neighborhood perve, Parker...'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked me to write about Peter and a dildo. So I did.  
> I also wrote this from his perspective. 
> 
> I like to think I'm funny.

The familiar sound of his web shooters hissing as the sticky substance left his wrist brought a smile to his face, sound of them playing along with the whistling of the heady night air blowing through the weaves of his suit. He watched as the webbing jettisoned towards the reflective surface of the glass, adhesive fingerlings at its end attaching with a soft smacking noise and allowing him to continue sailing past building after building in graceful arcs; long, lean muscles stretching and protesting as momentum carried him down and back up again.

The smirk at his lips changing abruptly to a confused frown as he swung towards a rusted old fire escape and was smacked in the chest with an unknown object; dull hollow thud echoing through the cage of his ribs and making him miss his mark. There was a moment of free fall as he watched the webbing he’d released flutter pathetically off to the side of the weather worn metal grating, lips pulling down further at the corners when instead, long, red coated fingers slammed into rough edges with a pealing vibrato and he was left hanging a few stories lower than he’d intended.

What _was_ that? It hadn’t been too big, whatever it was.

Looking down at the side walk below, past dangling question mark boots and through the hazy, slightly purpling air, his eyes caught on something that might have been a bright blue if not for the dim light of early morning, glistening and catching on the barely-there, yellow haze of streetlamps a few feet below him.

Fingers released their grip on the grating, air whistling past clothed ears again for a split second, tired knees protesting a bit as feet met with concrete and muscles landed smoothly in a low-crouch right over top of that blue thing.

That blue thing that now had him blushing furiously.

It was a dildo. A very blue, ver _y wet_ dildo. 

“O-oh, oh gross,” sweaty, red palms found the spot on his chest where that silicone thing had smacked into him, white of his mask aimed at the building he’d been swinging in front of, pausing as he caught sight of a pair of wide eyes, full lips, and wispy hair peering out from a window several stories up.

“Oh, come on, you’re messing with me right now, right?” He whispered between clenched teeth, cheeks on fire, words directed at whatever entity in the sky was consistently screwing with him.

_Of course_ the owner was attractive, too.

_Don’t think about why that thing is glistening, Peter. Friendly neighborhood, Spider-Man, not creepy, neighborhood perve, Parker._

_Although, she started it; throwing dildos out windows and what not._

She was looking down at him now, panic written all over strange and exciting features. From where he stood, in the rapidly lightening sky, he could see that her own nose and cheeks were splashed with color, rosy, purple morning-tinted lips mouthing a string of curses.

“Usually people throw dirty looks or garbage to let me know they aren’t a fan, but this,” he offered her a chuckle as he looked up at her, fingers pointing at that blue thing and smiling beneath his mask, glad for the fabric as he took in her mortified expression and a pair of hands that covered the whole of her face save for a set of shimmering eyes peeking past cracks of fingers, “I have to say, is a first. Haven’t decided if I like your style or not, if I’m being honest.”

“It was an accident, I’m so sorry, oh my God,” her hands were in her hair now, pulling at loose strands, “this is so embarrassing. Please, just kill me now,” pinched eyes aimed at the sky the same as his had been, conversing with the comedic genius in the moon, or maybe the stars.

And he couldn’t stop the bubbling laughter from pushing past his lips, discomfort at the awkwardness of the situation feeding the giggles, until his brain caught up to what she’d said, funny brow rising beneath lycra, “Wait, an accident?” He was looking down at the shiny thing with furrowed brows, “But it-its, well, um, we-well,” head inclining towards the figure no longer breathing, the figure that had worked her way out onto her fire escape, long strands of hair blowing around her face that was now completely devoid of color as she realized what he was trying to suggest.

“Oh. Oh, no. No, no,” pair of hands waving furiously, “It’s not, that’s not, I wasn’t, Oh my God,” fingers now cradling her forehead as she tried to hide her eyes from his ultra-perceptive ones, “it’s, um, it’s new. I just got that and I was washing it, and it slipped out of my hands and out the window,” her thumb gesturing behind her as she finally got the words out, “I wasn’t, um, yeah.”

“Oh, so, aha, _that_ -that’s just water?”

“Umm, yes?”

“Ok.”

He was looking down at the toy, hands hanging down at his sides, whole body uncomfortable, hands shifting between clenched and unclenched as he debated on what to do next.

_How friendly was too friendly when you were Spider-Man?  
_

_This was definitely, probably, absolutely out of his scope of practice._

_But when in Queens…._

“Well, I guess, you want this back then,” wrist flicking towards the blue and catching it with his webbing, nearly laughing at the sight of it dangling below him as he took aim at the rusted metal of her fire escape with the other, readying himself to shoot up into the air with it.

“Oh, please don’t, this is not - I could have come down to get it, you don’t -” but he was already climbing over the railing while she tripped over her words and bare feet, backing towards the glistening, pink surface of the window that thing had slipped out of.

“This takes the cake, by the way. Strangest thing I’ve done to help someone out, and I’ve done a lot of strange things, let me tell you,” laughter bleeding into his voice as he held her toy out to her, blue phallic thing now dry and spinning as it hung from his web.

“And this is not at all how I imagined myself meeting an Avenger for the first time, let me tell _you_ ,” he tried not to react as he watched her hand wrap around that blue thing, blush heating his skin from beneath his mask again as he averted his eyes long enough for her to slip it back through her window.

“Well, y-you know, dick happens,” he supplied, shrugging nervous shoulders, voice cracking entirely too much for a grown adult.

“Does it though?” She asked, one delicate eyebrow raised, laughing eyes gesturing to where the toy was now hiding, “because if it did…”

“O-oh,” he gulped before chuckling awkwardly, gloved fingers rubbing at the back of a lycra clad neck, “I don’t really know what to say here in this situation. It’s not often a pretty girl throws her toys at me.”

* * *

 

_**I’d say I was sorry for this, but I would be lying.** _


	10. Selfish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Reader are both protective of each other in different ways, but both for the same reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“I can’t stand the thought of losing you.”_
> 
> Warnings: this is corn chowder sprinkled with a healthy helping of cheddar.

“You don’t ha- ”

“[Y/N,] _please,”_ he begged, sweaty hands wrapped firmly around the pair that were balled up at his chest, fingers clenching at the fabric of his t-shirt; the likeness of Einstein wrinkled and distorted; not entirely unlike the world around you as time stopped and all there was among the disorder and confusion was the two of you, “I need you to trust me. I’m going to keep you safe. ”

“I do. I do trust you, Pete,” eyebrows furrowing, shaking your head at him, “it’s not that, I just - ”    
  
A woman from your World Literature class slammed into you, clock starting back up again as her shoulder rammed itself into yours; the hands at Peter’s chest keeping you from falling over.

Chaos was erupting around you, students and faculty alike were frantically running down crowded halls, dozens of echoing steps and loud, panicked voices filling your ears and clouding your brain; the TV visible from the open door of the lounge broadcasting the scene less than a block away from campus; explosions and gunfire, strange energy weapons pulsing, emitting beams of violence in varying shades.

“-I worry about you. _Look_ at that, Peter.”

You didn’t need the stressed words of the newscaster cowering on scene to tell you how dangerous the attack was; even from where you stood, sheltered by the walls of the institution, you could hear the keening, strange sounds the guns were making. You could hear screaming; could hear crying, pleading voices.

If you really focused, you could see the way the munitions coming from the outlandish barrels were casting this eerie spectacle of light across the reflective surface of the windows behind the TV, colors changing the white streaming from the sun into various alien pastels.

“I want to protect you,” the way he said it like a prayer, a declaration, a promise, his own eyebrows rising at the words spilling from his anxious heart, “more than anything. Let me do that by stopping them.”

His eyes, dark brown and glassy, were pleading with you; with the hands at his chest; you could see yourself reflected in them, could see the worried expression you wore on your face projected onto the screen of his irises as you took in the boy in front of you.

But then he wasn’t really a boy anymore, was he?

He was all hard lines, strong arms, and honeyed words.

He was Peter Parker, the man who wore t-shirts with science puns, space, movie heroes, and too-big comfy sweaters. The man who sometimes forgot to brush his curls into order, occasionally neglected to tie the laces of his Converse up the right way, who tripped over himself and his words a few too many times a day, and had a hard time buttoning up his flannels correctly.

He was the kind of man who made silly jokes about photons and traveling light.

But, he was also the Peter who always somehow knew your new favorite song before even you did, your preferred color for the week, who remembered the comment you’d made about the warm shades decorating the trees outside your apartment, and who always told you when you looked pretty; words fighting through blushing cheeks just to make sure you _knew._

You _loved_ this man.

You loved him and you were selfish.  
  
Looking into his eyes, the feel of his strong, steady hands and the hard, set line of his jaw, you forgot for a second how _soft_ Peter was, suddenly seeing him for all that he stood for. Sometimes you forgot that this man was a protector, a hero, too wrapped up in the sometimes clumsy, always dorky, gentle being made of light that he was. 

Sometimes you forgot that he was also Spider-Man, that he was _always_ both. There was no distinction. 

_Selfish._

The building shook as an explosion went off just outside, a billowing pillar of amber colored smoke blew in through the windows of the empty lecture room to your left; Peter’s arms moving quickly to wrap themselves around you, cocooning your face and neck within the safe harbor of his chest, burying his own into your hair as tiny shards of melted glass blew out into the corridor.

As quickly as he had moved to shelter you, he was releasing you again, eyes alert and body tense.

Then a hand was wrapping around yours again and he was pulling you towards the storage closet a little further down the hall. You knocked over a stack of paper towels on a wobbly shelf as he all but shoved you in, a set of warm lips leaving a wet mark on your forehead as he placed a hasty kiss there.

He had already managed to rip his jacket off, had already worked Einstein over his head and was tossing both into the closet with you, both articles caught and hanging off of a broom handle.

The emblem he wore at his chest caught the light from the bulb above your heads.

“I’ve got to go. Please, stay right here. I’ll come and get you after.” He was already half way out the door, but you held firm to his hand.

“Peter - ” He cut you off with a kiss. It was firm, and rough, and desperate, his fingers pulling a little too harshly at your hair as they held on to your face for all they were worth, and there were teeth clanging together with teeth, and raspy breaths exhaling from squished noses, but _oh_ , if his lips didn’t set you on fire; your whole body begging for him to just _stay._

_Selfish:_ the word tattooed on your heart, letters formed at the cellular level with the ink of guarded, careful, all consuming adoration.

“I’ve beaten guys like this before. I can handle it. Trust me, [Y/N.]”

But your brain, your brain knew that he was needed out there where the sounds of terrorism were overwhelming, and violence was now on every frequency.

So you nodded your head and dropped his hand. 

“Stay here,” he pointed a pleading set of fingers at you, while the other worked a mask over a pair of worried eyes.

The building rattled again, broom tipping over into the small space, his clothes toppling to the floor with it.

Then he slammed the door shut.

“I can’t stand the thought of losing you,” you heard him whisper through the spaces around the door, carbon copied words matching the thoughts you’d been unable to voice to him before he’d run off to face your fears.


	11. Combustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day Peter Parker defies genetics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per usual - blocks of italicized font are meant to be read as flash backs.

_It had started the night before, had woken him up, that angry red mark in the crook of his neck screaming for his attention; to be touched, rubbed, scratched,_ anything. _It had taken on a life of its own, strange alien pulse beating at his skin, trailing up his neck and into his head, down his arms, his back, and into his toes; heart of it straining against his, battling the impulses, stretching and charging muscles fibers in this strange way that was both exhilarating and nauseating._

_He’d thrown up as soon as his head had cleared the top bunk._

_His body had flushed with this intense heat and the next thing he knew, he was waking up to sticky, salty skin, the smell of sick in his nose, and carpet fibers in his eyes, The Imperial March blasting through the speaker on his phone so loudly the shock of it sent pain shooting through his jaw and temples._

_“Peter, hun, you’re going to be late,” May’s muffled voice from behind the door soothing the ache long enough for him to make it to the shower._

_He couldn’t miss another day of school; wouldn’t. Not after all that May had been through._

_Not after all of the days he’d spent locked away in his room after that night.  
_

_It was somewhere between the scratchy, papery sounds of overly starched jeans sliding over dark leg hairs and the thunderous sound of water pounding at fiberglass, that he’d realized he’d heard her heart beating, her blood rushing, the sound of slowly greying hair falling across her skin through the door._

Ear buds jammed into sticky ears made the ride on the subway a little less unbearable.

He’d been able to lie to his teachers in first and second period. He’d told them he had a migraine, that the lights were too bright; if he could just tuck his head into his arms, he could listen.

She’d slipped the note under his elbow in third period.

_‘What’s wrong? I’m worried about you, Pete,’_ her messy writing even more difficult to read than usual through the blurry haze of his glasses.

_‘A little under the weather today, that’s all,_ ’ he’d managed.

She’d frowned, tucking the piece of paper away in the canvas bag by her feet, bright eyes hanging on his every move; every bead of sweat trapping itself in the curled strands of hair above his ears.

Cold, delicate fingers had found a temporary home between his shoulder blades every time the teacher’s back was turned.

He hadn’t expected her to follow him when he’d suddenly jumped up and made a mad dash for the bathroom when his heart and stomach had started playing a game of double dutch in his chest, both competing with each other to see which would trip over that tightly coiled rope of _‘what the hell is happening to me?’_ first.

He couldn’t get the faucet running quickly enough; white water hands splashing his face with the cold; stupid, blurry glasses be damned.

When he finally caught his reflection in the mirror, he couldn’t help but to flinch; he looked like _hell_. Dark, oily strands of coffee colored curls stuck to his forehead, his cheeks flush with color, toffee eyes glassy, tips of too-big ears red and burning.

There was an actual sweat ring around the collar of his shirt.

His stomach cramped the longer he looked, features becoming strange and alien; morphing, swirling, changing, but not; surely this wasn’t what he’d always looked like.  This person in the mirror wasn’t Peter Parker.

But maybe that was just the fever.

Maybe even the oil coating his glasses.

“Peter?” the cautious voice echoing far too loudly around the walls of the bathroom, colliding with too receptive eardrums pounding away on either side of his burning eyes. It was hot; his blood simmering, new, thready pulse like a combustion engine misfiring; veins searing his flesh from the inside out.

He couldn’t keep his fingers from slipping beneath his fogged glasses, rims of them slick and greasy from the muddled dampness of his forehead; digits pushing and digging at the sensation.

“Peter? Are you OK? You scared everyone in class,” her voice softer, soothing, but still loud despite the door separating her concern from where he stood hovering over the sink.

He was going to be sick again. He was afraid, fear-encrusted tears beginning to well up under his fingers, saltiness tickling at the creases.

Maybe he should have mentioned the bite to someone.

Maybe he should have told May or Ned.

He should have told you.

It was too late now.

Now, he was going to collapse and die here on the bathroom floor, smell of pee and teen spirit; the faintest hint of misguided and misdirected machoism as a farewell aroma; the final well aimed loogie of dramatic irony that had made up his life.

“Hey,” she whispered, “I’m here. It’s OK,” and then there was that hand again, this time it curled around the back of his neck, fingers bathing that angry red mark with calm; eyes closing as he soaked it in.

His lungs sprung free from the tension he’d been holding in his chest since that spider had found purchase, his breath steaming up the mirror as it released and his heart tripped on that wire, jolting one last time as it smacked against the pavement of his stomach before slowing.

“Why are you in the boys bathroom?”

“Because you are,” little smile growing on his lips at her words and the way she didn’t seem to mind the wetness of his hair at the back of his neck, her fingers teasing at the strands.

“Fair enough.”

When he opened his eyes again to look at her, pretty features hazy, frustration creased his forehead and pinched his brows, exasperated noise leaving his lips, “I can’t see.”

“What do you mean? Want me to clean your glasses for you?” Her free hand was already reaching for his bag and the pocket she knew he kept his case in.

She paused with wide eyes as he let out a quick bark of a laugh when he pulled the frames from his face and blinked.

“ _Actually,_ the glasses were the problem.”

“What?”

He lifted the lenses up and down his nose, frames like a ratchet strap pulling at the corners of his lips the longer he looked at himself in the mirror, at the crisp, clean lines of him and the way the harsh lighting cast shadows on all of the shapes of that strange, pseudo- alien face, “That’s so cool. I really don’t think I need these.”

When he looked at her, it was like he was seeing her, _really_ seeing her for the first time, “Oh wow, look at _you,_ ” he expressed as dark eyes trailed over eyelashes, fine hairs above shy eyes catching fire in the light, curved lips, and blushing cheeks.

If not for the color painting her face, he could have pretended she hadn’t heard.

She pretended her heart wasn’t racing.

But he could hear it.

“How – Peter, _what?_ You’re telling me all you have to do is sweat out the bad genes, and voila, just like that, you can see?”

“I guess,” his shoulders shrugged in time with his smile, her hand slipping down the middle of his back as she smiled, too. “It’s that, or puberty.”

Her laugh, although loud and echoing, danced through his chest and set his heart back on that thready rhythm  that maybe he could make a habit of, so long as it was the bite of her laughter and not the fangs of a mutant, freakazoid spider that did it to him.

She finished wetting paper towel for him, passing it between finger tips for him to clean away the evidence of his strange, sweaty, likely bite-induced illness.

“Pretty sure that’s not how puberty works, Peter.”

It was a few days later that he figured out just how awesome ‘Puberty’ had been to him.

* * *

 

_**Let me know what you guys think. Feedback is always appreciated.**   
_


	12. Inspiring Confidence (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'“Oh my god, it’s not – come on – it’s – you know, that doesn’t exactly inspire confidence when you laugh at a guy like that,” his voice, sound of it now beginning to carry the notes of humor, rang out from the place you’d set the phone down by your knee...'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Awkward adorable Peter thinking he has text game, but is really just a dork.

It was a Friday night and you were lying in the dim quiet of your bedroom, music playing in one ear, the other open to the air, earbud dangling between breasts and lazily bouncing as fingers busily clacked away at the keys on your laptop, working to finish up the research paper with a due date that was fast approaching; assignment currently keeping you from hanging out with your friends at that hip, jazzy café you so liked.

The cellphone at the end of your bed buzzed, underside of it lighting up and highlighting a few of the wrinkles in your comforter. No sooner had the first buzz ended, did another vibrate. Lips pulling into a knowing smile; it was Peter, it was almost always Peter.

He’d spent most of the afternoon trying to convince you to take a night off and just go do _something_ with your friends, with him. He’d even tried bargaining with kisses and whispered words, with eyelashes fluttering on cheeks and lips nipping at noses and at the corners of yours as they pulled into a smile at the ridiculous way he threw finger messed curls back and groaned when you still told him no despite his best attempts at persuasion.

It was all in good fun. Peter understood, he’d even offered to stick around to help you, but you’d insisted that he go out and enjoy his night off.

But now you found yourself regretting that decision. This could wait until tomorrow, right? What was one more night? It was almost complete anyway. With your mind made up, you grabbed for your phone and closed your computer just as The Imperial March began to blast through your speakers and Peter’s face decorated the screen.

“Hey, Pete, I was just about to ca-” his panicked voice cut you off, notes cracking as the words flew out of him so quickly it was almost difficult for you to understand what he was saying.

“OhmygoshI'msosorry, please disregard that, please. I’m so sorry, I just - I wanted to see you and – you’re so pretty and  - I mean, ohmygosh, I’m sorry, I just -” Then it was you who was cutting him off with a confused chuckle, laughter bleeding into your voice as it carried through the receiver and into his ear.

_“Peter,_ ” you could hear that his breath had caught as he listened intently, “ _what_ are you talking about?” You heard it start back up again, phone crackling as he released that nervous breath in a huff.

“Oh you haven’t -? You haven’t seen it? Oh, _oh thank God_ ,” you could almost see the way he probably looked, could hear the muffled sounds of his skin brushing over the mouthpiece as he looked to the painted ceiling, hazy blue lighting splashing his face with color, phone pressed tightly to his cheek, free hand running through blue-tinted toffee curls, “- then just, uh, don’t open my Snapchat. Just forget it. Sorry again. Sorry.”

“You _know_ I _have_ to look now, right?” Your fingers were already working to pull up the Snap he’d sent you, his voice muffled and softer now that it wasn’t at your ear.

“Oh no, _please_ no. I thought it would be funny, but now it’s just embarrassing and I don’t know what I was thinking. Actually, I do, but that’s beside the point.”

At first, looking at the black and white image he’d sent you, reading the words he’d tagged it with, your face had lit up and your chest and abdomen had ignited, but then it quickly became funny, and you found yourself shaking with laughter as you flicked to the second photo he’d sent, giggling at the expression, at the panic already glimmering at the edges of his dark eyes.

“Oh my god, it’s not – come on – it’s – you know, that doesn’t exactly inspire confidence when you laugh at a guy like that,” his voice, sound of it now beginning to carry the notes of humor, rang out from the place you’d set the phone down by your knee.

You were still chuckling when you brought him back up to your ear, “You’re adorable, Pete. I’ll see you in a few minutes, _stud,_ ” and you hung up before he could respond, climbing off your bed and slipping into your shoes before locking up and heading to where he was, in that crowded café, where you knew he was sitting with friends, a mess of tripped over words and blushing cheeks for reasons unknown to them.

He was hiding his face from you beneath sweaty hands the moment you walked in, mischief shimmering in the blue-brown of his eyes that were peeking past the cracks in his fingers, embarrassed smile on his lips. You were all smirks and wiggling eyebrows, “So, what was this about nudes again, Parker?” warm breath pushing at fine curls as you whispered into a hot, red ear.

 

 


	13. Inspiring Confidence (Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'“Did you – did you actually just send me nudes?” Looking at yourself in the mirror as you spoke, at the white of your teeth as lips stretched tight across them and eyes crinkled as you smiled…'_
> 
> A continuation of the last text-wreck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Awkward adorable Peter thinking he has text game, but is really just a dork.

A contented sigh pushed past moistened lips as hot water pounded away at tense shoulders, muscle fibers tangled with all of the hours spent finishing up that paper you’d ended up putting off until late the next evening; laptop and scholarly words pushed aside for toffee curls, fluttering eyelashes, and words that were much more recreational.

There had been more giggling and clanging teeth than there normally was; lips too busy stretched across each other in smiles to even bother avoiding clumsiness.

A rosy blush had stained his face, his sculpted cheeks and sandy freckles a soft, flowery purple in the hazy blue lighting for most of the night. Petal pink color following the two of you back to your room as you’d quickly forgotten about black, white, blue, and jazz and moved on to mixing _your_ colors and making music of your own kind.

He’d left in the early hours of the morning, a colored shadow escaping out of the window and into the purpling sky. You hadn’t heard from him since; it wasn’t often that Spider-Man truly got a night off.

Through the harsh pattering sound of droplets hitting the plastic of the shower curtain, you heard the tell-tale ping of your phone, accompanying vibration rattling against the marbled surface of the sink. The fact that it was 3 A.M. on a Sunday leaving you with no doubt: it was Peter. 

But then it was almost always Peter.

Rinsing the last of the conditioner from your hair, humid air full of flowers and rain, you cut the water off and grabbed for your towel just in time for Peter’s ringtone to echo off the tiles in the steamed bathroom; drying off pruned hands and wrapping fluffed fabric around yourself before grabbing at the phone that was bouncing across the slicked surface of the counter; a lazy smile on your face.

“Peter, Isn’t it a little lat-” in a repeat of the night before, his nervous voice was cutting you off, vibrating, not unlike the way your phone had been seconds earlier.

“Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t think you would mind and that was a _terrible_ idea,” chuckles uneasy, deep and bubbling past lips, “and, um, I - I’m not really sure exactly what I was thinking or – actually, again, I do, that’s a lie – ohmygod, um – I was impatient and now I just feel like it was gross, and - ”

“Peter?” You interrupted, deciding on words rather than the laughter that was begging to release as you connected the dots.

“Hmm?” Squeak of a sound from a tight, nervous throat.

“Did you – did you _actually_ just send me nudes?”

Looking at yourself in the mirror as you spoke, at the white of your teeth as lips stretched tight across them and eyes shimmered as a choked laugh found its way to your ear from where ever Peter was. He was undoubtedly pink from head to toe, freckles on his face and shoulders shining like the stars as the colors surrounding them crescendo and make them light up in the way you so admire.

“No, HA, yes, I mean – that uh, that depends. Did your phone go off before I called you? Please tell me it didn’t. Please? Because if it didn’t - ”

“No such luck, Parker,” suspicions confirmed, there was no waiting. You were back to doing as you had the night before, checking the embarrassing messages your flustered boyfriend had sent you from the other end of the line.

You could hear his heavy breathing, could practically _feel_ his heart beating furiously as he sat and listened for a reaction; you could imagine funny brows pinched together in the middle, white teeth peeking out as he bit at the corner of a pink, chapped lip, sweaty hand grabbing at the back of a blushing neck.

“I’m sorry. You caught that, right?”

But you weren’t really listening.

He was all long lines, harsh angles, glowing, golden skin and freckles that seemed to go on for miles and miles. It looked like he had been in the shower, too, dark shiny curls just visible, angle suggesting the dork might have actually really thought it through, like he’d spent time on getting it just right. He knew what your favorite parts of him were; you hadn’t told him with words so much as shown him.

When your eyes caught on _that_ part of him your stomach flopped.

_Oh._

It wasn’t anything that you hadn’t already seen, but that didn’t stop your heart and lungs from keeping time with his as you lingered and forgot that the man you were eyeing up on your screen was actually still listening and gauging your reaction.

Just as you couldn’t stop your body from responding in the way that it often, _always,_ did as far as Peter was concerned, you couldn’t stop the crooked grin and the quirk of a still damp brow as you decided.

“ _Pe-nis Parker,_ my my,” and you heard his intake of breath, heard the rushed _‘ohmygod,_ ’ “if only you’d thought to send - ”

“HA, no, nope, uh-uh, _not_ going there,” voice closer to the honey you were used to, smile pulling at his lips obvious.

“Mhmm, well, thanks for the material, hot stuff, see you to - ”

“Hey, no no, wait a second.”

“Yes, Pete?” You were using your sweetest voice, knowing what he was wanting, but not willing to pull the bumbling, blushing mess out from the waters of embarrassment. Not quite yet.

“I – you – um,” and you could see him again, redness back on his cheeks and fingers in those curls as he stumbled over the question that had latched itself onto his tongue.

“Did you want something?” He clicked his tongue at your words and you could feel him rolling his eyes at your tone, lip pulling up at the corner as he recognized your teasing.

“Well, yeah, if – but only if you wanted, only if that’s –“

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Peter” and you hung up, heart fluttering in your ears as you laughed a little at yourself, at the ridiculousness of your sometimes awkwardly endearing boyfriend, who wasn’t always aware of himself, what he was, what he could ask of you, what you would do for him; even this. 

But in this moment, he was Peter, who just so happened to look _really_ good in whatever lighting he had managed for the photo you found yourself looking at again.

A smirk found your lips once more and you dropped your towel, soft fabric pooling around your toes, “OK, Parker.”

* * *

 

The next morning when you met him and Ned for breakfast, there was a little pep to your step at the thought of what you had likely just done to the man sitting at the quaint, conservative wrought iron table out on the patio, streams of the early morning sun doing nothing to hide the rosiness burnishing his cheeks as his eyes widened and he looked up at you from his phone, looking quickly away again as he took in your expression, pout on his lips as he reached for his drink.

He was working diligently on downing his glass of ice water as you tucked yourself into your chair, glass nearly tipping over as he sat it back down and cleared his throat, brown of his eyes avoiding the look on your face at all costs.

“Good morning, _hot stuff_ ,” and you had to laugh a little as he groaned and squirmed in his seat.

“Oh, _come on_ ,” he whispered, “why? this is-this is just -”

“Good morning, Ned” you nodded, smile still on your face as you took in Ned’s confused, but humored expression, taking in the half-assed dirty looks Peter was shooting you from across the table as you got comfortable, smiling at him like the sun was on his scarlet face and rapidly bouncing leg. 

But then he was shaking his head and grinning at you, melted dark chocolate of his eyes swirling as you quirked a brow at him.

“Peter, what the heck is wrong with you, dude? That’s the first time I’ve ever seen you let her tuck her own chair in,” and then you lost it as Peter groaned again, hiding those starlight freckles and dark eyes between folded arms on the table, fingers shoving his phone away from him in true, dramatic Parker fashion.

“Yeah, what gives Parker? Something wrong with your legs?” 

He turned his head, toffee curls a mess, and peeked an eye out at you, corners crinkling and cheeks pushing at baggy under eyes as he grinned. You found yourself winking as you tapped at his nose and said, “Or is there something in your _lap?_ ”

“ _Oh my God,_ never again.”

But he hadn’t really meant that.

* * *

 

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